Oxonian Anecdotes: Quick Breaths

One break, one small vacation provided a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel during those first few weeks of Oxford academia. When the time came and those last few essays finally left my hand, I was liberated, even if only for a few short days. It was as if I had been under water since the beginning and had only now been allowed to surface for a few quick breaths of delicious air. I chose to take those breaths away from Oxford, a city that I had come to love, but also that had seemed to be ever-shrinking during my long days amid the stacks of the Bodleian Library.

The time of freedom commenced at the Imperial War Museum in London, where I was to meet my cousin, Sonja, and begin the London chapter of my vacation. She, also a college student studying abroad, had only moved to the bustling capital the week before, but, I don’t doubt, still felt as anxious as I to see a familiar face. I waited with anticipation in the large, bright atrium of the museum, watching groups of British school children foil their chaperones’ attempts at organization. As soon as I spotted Sonja revealing the contents of her purse to the thorough security guard at the door, I felt joy and relief greater than I had expected. When he granted her entry, we met, shared a warm a hug and then raced around the museum. The pace of our feet was matched only by the rate at which we were chattering; excitement sped both. Finally, we stopped and admitted that neither of us, at that particular moment in time, cared to examine the nurses’ uniforms from World War II and found a bench on which we might rest our weary legs.

We gushed excitedly, telling stories of how we had already embarrassed ourselves in this strange new country and sharing bits of information that might slow the collection of such tales. I, being the much more experienced English impostor, had valuable wisdom to impart. “Pants are underwear, so always say trousers,” I warned her, quite seriously, since lacking this important piece of information could mean an embarrassing misunderstanding. “Biscuits are cookies,” I went on. “Jam is jelly, jelly is Jell-O and Jell-O means nothing. A queue is a line, but you don’t queue up, you just queue. A quid is a pound - sort of like a buck is a dollar. Uhh…,” I searched for more pearls, “…oh, and they use the French words for eggplant and zucchini, but I don’t remember what they are.” I paused and we laughed at this last warning, considering the likelihood of Sonja desperately needing to find an eggplant or a zucchini.

The next two days passed like a gust of wind - quickly, but with force. Sleep was not a priority. In the day I was an amateur tour guide: my slight familiarity with London appeared expertise next to her inexperience. We took pictures in front of Parliament for our mothers and, along with countless other tourists, craned our necks to achieve the perfect view of “Big Ben.”[1] At night we engaged in city life with the few acquaintances Sonja had made in her short time there. I remember one young man in particular who enlightened us by explaining that men from Austria, his homeland, were known to be quite charming. I questioned this stereotype as he proceeded to list off the languages in which he was fluent, being sure to poke fun at the general ignorance of foreign languages in America. Sonja and I made an attempt at defense by mumbling some high school Spanish back and forth, but ultimately were forced to concede his point.
When the morning came for me to move on to the next part of my journey, I didn’t want to leave. I had booked a flight to Barcelona, one of the few places I was determined to visit while living in Europe, but the reality of making the trip by myself suddenly seemed terrifying as compared to our safe jaunts around London. Fighting this anxiety, I set out early from her tall apartment building with my backpack and a borrowed pop-up map that would hopefully lead me to Liverpool Station.

I had spent many afternoons and evenings in London, fighting my way through crowds of tourists, but the city in the early morning is a different place. I enjoyed the quiet and the stillness of the city streets along my route, disturbed only by newspaper delivery trucks and faithful shop-owners preparing for the day. When I arrived at the train station, I was relaxed and awake, ready to embark on a day of travel. I bought a train ticket and after an hour-long train ride finally found myself at Stansted Airport.

I had packed for the break in one small backpack. In it were a few toiletry items, which, according to several signs around the airport, were too big to take on the plane. I did not wish to part with them and so decided to push my luck. When the man behind the x-ray machine asked if I had gels or liquids, I said “yes” and showed them to him. He told me that the containers were too big, but hesitantly, so I pushed farther by tilting my head and furrowing my brow as if I didn’t understand. He handed the Ziploc bag containing the questionable items to a colleague who examined them, I suspect just for show, and then handed them back to me. I thanked him earnestly and then chuckled to myself as I walked away. Those bottles could have been dangerous and I felt a little less safe, but I had won.

Security battles behind me, I boarded a tiny plane belonging to a discount airline, Ryanair. It was not the most luxurious flight I have ever taken, but the ticket was cheap.[2] Nothing on the plane was free and the in-flight entertainment was limited to watching the flight attendant demonstrate for us the complicated process by which we could fasten and unfasten our safety belts. The flight was short and I was glad. I disembarked at Girona Airport and quickly found a bus that would bring me closer to my hostel.

The directions to the Mediterranean Youth Hostel I had copied from their website were less than thorough. Initially, I was feeling far too independent to ask for help, but soon the sun and the weight of my backpack put my pride to rest. I approached several strangers asking, “Do you speak English?” and finally resorted to pointing to the hostel address scribbled on a piece of paper. They would point and make cheerful explanations in Spanish, at which I would nod, smile, exclaim “gracias,” walk one block in the direction they had pointed and then repeat the process, finding yet another unsuspecting local. At one point, knowing that I needed cash to pay for my bed, and having only British pounds, I attempted to ask a couple of young men on a bench, in Spanish, where I might find a money exchange bureau. They stared at me blankly as I stumbled through different forms of the same question. I finally asked if they spoke any English and, while shaking their heads, the confused young men, in broken English, explained that they were French. Feeling sufficiently embarrassed, I laughed, apologized, and continued with my quest.

During my search for an exchange bureau, I found my way to an area of Barcelona known as Las Ramblas. It was a long street that stretched from the middle of the city to the waterfront and had a median filled with all sorts of curiosities. Costumed street performers entertained in strange ways: some standing still, some dancing, some miming and some performing tricks. I stopped and watched a lovely young woman wearing a heavy ball gown, standing on a pedestal perfectly still. I began to imitate her stillness, wondering what it might be like to make a living that way. There were little shops set up everywhere selling a variety of wares: typical souvenirs, newspapers, candy, and even a strange selection of pets. As I observed the caged chickens on display, I couldn’t understand who would buy them. Surely tourists did not generally buy live fowl on impulse as they would a shiny keychain, and the chicken-seeking locals certainly knew of another place to make such a purchase, avoiding clowns and unicycle-riders.

To this day those chickens perplex me, but the most interesting thing I witnessed that afternoon had little to do with unusual product placement. As I approached the end of Las Ramblas, where the street ended amidst a few antique markets not far from the water, I heard the loud beating of drums. The sound grew and singing joined the ruckus, but I could not see its source. I did see a mass of people ahead of me, and assumed the music was the object of their attention. I circled the crowd until an opening revealed itself and I was able to stealthily claim a spot with a view. What I found was not nearly what I had expected. There was a cart attended by several men wearing what looked like white togas. The men in togas were not the only ones participating. Several of the onlookers were quite enthusiastic about the goings on, dancing and singing, which made me even more curious as to what exactly was happening. The cart shone with beautiful decorations - brightly colored flowers and shiny ornaments. Amidst the decor were a variety of small figures, which looked like some variety of idols. I suspected that I was witnessing a sort of worship service or celebration, but could not understand the words spoken or sung; everything was in Spanish.

As soon as I had decided that it was time to move on, something different began to take place - three of the toga-clad men each picked up a coconut and placed what looked like sugar cubes on top of them. I quickly learned that they were not sugar cubes as another of the men set each on fire.[3] The fire from the small white cubes quickly ignited the surrounding hair of the coconuts. Then, without warning, the men simultaneously threw the flaming coconuts to the ground. They shattered and the newly released coconut milk extinguished the small blazes. I was baffled and further confused when the pieces of coconut were snatched up by members of the crowd, some being eaten, others hid in purses and pockets. The unusual ceremony completed, I walked away, head buzzing with possible explanations for what I had seen. Much like the chickens of Las Ramblas, I still can’t be sure.

After an entire afternoon of wandering the streets of Barcelona and battling the language barrier, I finally arrived at my hostel, euros in hand. The colorful establishment sat at the top of two narrow flights of stairs and kept most of its large windows open. It was hot that day, making me question whether or not the open windows acted in place of air conditioning. I hoped that they did not. After I was shown to my room, I picked a bottom bunk in the corner. It was one of ten beds in the large, square room nearly filled with iron-framed bunk beds. I dropped my things, lay on the uncovered mattress and wondered what I would do alone in a foreign city for three whole days.

My question was soon answered as other travelers began to arrive. I
observed the young men and women quickly claiming the vacant beds around me and noticed something; they were all Australian. This fascinated me further because none of the small groups of backpackers seemed to know each other but almost instantly united after discovery of the common homeland. By the end of the night, at least eighty percent of the hostel residents were “Aussies.” There were also a couple from New Zealand, who I learned were called “Kiwis,” and another party of girls from America who I decided were not particularly familiar with the hostel lifestyle after noticing their oversized suitcases and multiple wardrobe changes. The Kiwis kept to themselves, the Americans left early in the evening, and so I was left amid a throng of rambunctious Aussies.

“What’s your name?” asked Gabby, a spunky blond girl who was unpacking on the bed next to mine. We chatted and as soon as she learned that I was traveling alone she asked

“You’ll come out with us tonight then, yeah?” I was thrilled and immediately accepted. My fears about spending the weekend alone quickly melted into new fears about what my new friends would think of me. I had not spoken to them much yet, but already realized that we were very different. A few of them had just come from Oktoberfest in Germany, which meant they were slowly recovering from a hazy week of drunkenness remembered only by means of the few blurry pictures they had managed to take. I’m still not sure how they had the resources to travel so much. Many had been in Europe for months, partying their way from hostel to hostel.
I did learn that some had been doing “bar work” in London at a popular Australian-themed restaurant. Apparently the company hires only Australians, pays them very little and keeps them all in the same low-quality housing. The idea sounded a bit reminiscent of modern slavery, but the victims themselves didn’t seem to mind. I also discovered that a group of the young men had been paid cricket-players in London. I nodded and smiled during this conversation until I was found out as knowing absolutely nothing about the sport. They laughed and were kind enough to explain the rules of the game while I feigned interest – it seemed to me to be an inferior form of baseball.

When I told them that I didn’t drink much, and that I was actually a student at Oxford University on break, I became an interesting novelty. They were determined to see me join them in their unprecedented sangria consumption, but began drinking so early themselves that they soon forgot about their mission. That was a night I will not soon forget. They liked me. I was different from them in almost every way imaginable, but they still found a great deal in me to enjoy, and I in them. Though there were parts of their lifestyle was something I might never understand, I was inspired by their ability to accept me based on the fact that I was willing to accept them.

The next morning, one of the bigger groups asked me to sightsee with them and I happily agreed. The idea was much more appealing than wandering the city streets alone. As a person quite familiar with the official tour, I found it amusing that their idea of sightseeing was to meander around, taking pictures of things that looked like they might be important without actually learning the significance of anything. They cared little for art or history and almost every conversation was monopolized by topics related to alcohol, sex or food. The morning was certainly educational, but not in any way that I had expected.

I took it upon myself to try and teach Crystal, the only other female in the tour group, some Spanish. She was a willing student, but knew so little to begin with that I fear my efforts were in vain. She did not even know how to say “hello,” and the repetition of “hola” on her lips sounded awkward. I found this situation absurd and then began to wonder how much American culture is unknowingly influenced by our neighbors to the south.

After a few hours walking in the oppressive Spanish heat, we returned to the hostel for lunch and a siesta. We ate on the patio and after only a few minutes the conversation took an interesting turn. I had just explained that my school back in the States didn’t allow drinking on or off campus for students of any age, and that many of my friends were getting married soon when the bewildered young men, looking for an explanation, asked if I went to a Christian school. I laughed and said “yes.” “So then you’re a Christian?” one asked, in a hesitant way, as if he was afraid to offend me. I said “yes” again and then, to my surprise, began an hour-long conversation about my faith. They told me that they were atheists. For some reason I suspected that wasn’t what they meant. “Most people our age call themselves agnostic – not knowing or sometimes even caring whether or not God exists,” I explained. “Uhhh…yeah. We’re not atheists, we’re agnostics,” they responded, grinning at their own apathy.

Though their own religious beliefs didn’t seem to concern them much, mine were of great interest. I answered each question as best I could, being sure to explain that, in many cases, different Christians' beliefs fall on a broad spectrum. “The most important thing, really, is no what we don’t do, but keeping ourselves pure, our hearts right toward the one who we believe made us. That’s all. We follow Jesus and he made it clear that we are supposed to love God and love people, period,” I explained. I tried hard to be honest with them, to not to pretend that all things were clear to me. In my youth, conversations with those outside my faith had been so different. I feared that they would find out that I didn’t know everything and worked hard to make sense of the Christianity they saw. This time, I wanted them to know that my knowledge was imperfect and that I could only explain the Christianity that I knew.

“It’s cool that you’re so open minded,” one of the young men remarked, toward the conclusion of the lunch hour conversation. I smiled, happy to have challenged the stuffy Christian stereotype, if only in the minds of those few young Australians. “Wow, I don’t know if we’ve ever had such a deep conversation,” he then exclaimed to his mates, and they all laughed heartily at themselves. We spent the rest of the day together, walking around the city, playing cards on our bunks, discovering that the English spoken in America and the English spoken in Australia hardly deserved the same name. I sat through many a conversation with a smile on my face, head nodding, trying to hide the fact that I had no idea what the subject was.

The next morning my friends were gone. Everyone in the hostel that I knew had checked out before I woke up. I sat in my bed, looking around the room. The colors of the walls and floor were faded and cracked, but tropical. Aided by the humidity invading through the open windows, this color scheme gave the room an exotic feel. The theme, though, was now contrasted by each of the grey, empty bunks, so plain without the open and disheveled suitcases of the day before. I mourned the death of those new relationships for a time, then took to planning an itinerary for the day. I would not return to England until the following morning and so would spend that day seeing things that may not have interested my departed friends. I saw the Modern Art Museum, the Picasso Museum, the Gothic District, several beautiful, old, little churches, and even more talented street performers. It was a lovely afternoon. I hardly spoke at all, the silence birthing reflection on the things I had done and seen, the words I had heard and spoken, and what lessons found their way into my consciousness as a result.

I had learned about acceptance from a group of unlikely young men and women who I, in my ignorance, would have quickly judged on the street as having nothing to offer society by way of moral virtue, and certainly not to me, an upstanding Christian student of humanities. Oh, how they proved me wrong and I was glad to admit it, if only to myself. I was humbled by the unlikely acquaintances I had made, but empowered by the trip itself and the independence it required. “What couldn’t I do?” I wondered. All too quickly I found myself back in Oxford, hiking Headington Hill between the bus stop and The Vines. Rain soaked my hair, but it could not distract me from a thought that overwhelmed: “That was one of the best weekends of my life,” echoed in my head and brought a broad smile to my wet face.

[1] I have set Big Ben within quotations because, contrary to a popular misconception, Big Ben is actually the name of the bell inside the famed clock tower of the Parliament building in London, rather than the clock tower itself.
[2] Sometimes lessons learned become lessons forgotten. (i.e. my inexpensive but extensive travel ordeal between the States and Oxford.)
[3] I have not actually tried to light a sugar cube on fire, but I do have some experience in preparing crème brulée and, therefore, am confident in saying that sugar is not as flammable as those cubes proved to be.